◇_ _
The assassin moved first.
A flicker—barely more than the twitch of a shadow—then steel screamed as his curved blade slashed through the space where the masked protector had stood a heartbeat before.
The protector had already shifted, fluid as water. His counter came low—a step in, a palm strike aimed at the assassin's exposed flank. Fast. Efficient. Not flashy.
The assassin twisted away, pivoting on his heel, cloak flaring. His boot carved a half-circle in the ash as he reversed his momentum, blade now arcing for the protector's throat.
The masked man dipped under it, the motion clean, surgical. A twist of his wrist brought a short crescent blade from beneath his coat, and the two weapons met with a soft clang—not heavy enough to echo, but sharp enough to sting.
They broke apart.
No words. No taunts.
Just breath.
They circled.
The air between them simmered with silent calculation. Neither relied on brute force. They weren't brawlers. They were cutters—men who trimmed away openings one twitch at a time.
Another exchange.
Quick. Brutal.
The assassin feinted high, then ducked, trying to hamstring his opponent. The protector dropped his weight, intercepting with a knee to the chest. The blow landed solid, forcing the assassin to stagger back—but not fall. He recovered instantly, face twisted in something close to irritation.
"You're not just a bodyguard," he muttered, voice low. "You're trained."
The masked man didn't answer. His stance shifted—subtly. Bladed knuckles flexed once.
The assassin struck again, now with a series of tighter slashes—testing.
The protector blocked, countered, disengaged. Perfect timing. Minimal motion. A man trained not just to win—but to conserve.
They locked again—this time hands, not blades. The assassin's elbow shot up toward the mask. It met the protector's shoulder. The masked man responded with a quick jab to the ribs. Both winced. Neither gave ground.
Then—
They broke.
A brief silence.
Ash drifted between them.
Their blades hovered at the ready, but neither moved immediately.
"You're not here for him," the assassin said finally, breath ragged. "You're here for what's in him."
Still, no response. But the protector's stance shifted—ever so slightly—toward the fallen Lothar.
"Doesn't matter," the assassin said, wiping blood from his lip. "We both know what happens next. The real things will come for him now. And when they do..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
The forest rustled—low and unnatural. Something massive, distant, stirred in the dark.
◇_ _
A new sound cut through the tension—not a growl, not a voice.
A drumbeat of footsteps. Dozens. Maybe more. From all directions.
The masked protector turned sharply toward the east, eyes narrowing behind the cloth. The ground there pulsed, the foliage trembling in rhythm with the advance of something large—many things.
"They're coming," he said flatly.
The golden-eyed girl looked in that direction. She could feel it too. The rhythm of corrupted mana. Footfalls too disordered to be soldiers.
"Delay them," the masked man said.
She blinked. "Alone?"
He didn't turn to face her. "We can't afford another variable here. Hold the path."
No hesitation. She drew her sword.
◇_ _
The trees split like paper as the first goblin burst through—jagged blade in hand, eyes yellow and twitching with bloodlust.
The girl stepped forward to meet it.
One motion. A downward cut. Her sword traced a silver arc, and the goblin's momentum carried it into its own end. It collapsed mid-lunge.
Another came. Then three.
She moved like water bending through flame. Her stance was tight. Compact. Built for efficiency. Every slash ended with an enemy falling—neck, leg, heart. Not a drop of wasted movement.
Technique over power.
But they didn't stop coming.
Wolves bounded from the underbrush—mottled, wrong, foaming. One leapt. She spun mid-air, cleaving its belly with a reverse grip.
Two more swiped from her left. She dropped low, letting one crash past while parrying the other with her elbow before driving her blade upward into its chest.
She was calm. Not serene—but deliberate.
◇_ _
They circled her now. Goblins with bent armor. Wolves limping but eager. From the ridge, a roar split the treetops.
A bear—no. A Grizzly Titan. Level 70, if not higher. Towering. Its fur was matted with black ichor. Eyes milk-white with anger. The trees bent away from its steps.
The girl inhaled slowly.
Then—her hand lifted.
Magic gathered around her blade—not wild, not flaring. It braided around the steel like a prayer made solid.
She took one step forward.
"—Grand Cross."
Blue light bloomed beneath her.
A cross-shaped arc of energy exploded from the tip of her sword, carving through the field. The shockwave tore through goblins like paper. The Grizzly Titan caught the full edge.
It screeched—like a mama bear in search for her babies.
Its charge faltered. It staggered.
But it didn't fall.
The girl's knees bent. Her grip trembled slightly—but she didn't back down.
"Come on," she whispered. "I'm not done yet."
The monsters came again.
And she moved to meet them.
◇_ _
The Grizzly Titan roared again, barreling toward her now with full weight. Behind it, more wolves and goblins tore through the brush, driven not by instinct but by something darker—like they were pulled by a thread none of them could see, their eyes red with madness.
The golden-eyed girl braced herself, blade raised.
But she knew. It wouldn't be enough.
Not this time, not at her level.
Her knuckles whitened. Her stance lowered. She looked at the charging tide—bloodied earth, corrupted breath, thunder behind every step—and whispered:
"They told me I wasn't ready yet."
Her sword trembled in her grip.
Then it sang.
A low hum, like a bell beneath the earth.
Golden light wrapped around the hilt, spiraling up the blade like liquid flame. Her aura flared—not outward, but inward. Not showy. Not loud. But impossibly dense.
Like gravity forgot what to do around her.
The goblins faltered mid-sprint. Wolves whimpered and skidded to a stop. Even the Grizzly Titan slowed, its steps suddenly unsure.
She whispered something else.
A word the world refused to hold onto.
It vanished from sound before it left her lips.
Then she moved.
Just once.
And the world broke.
The air cracked.
The ground split into molten seams.
An arc—no, a scar—of radiant energy erupted from her blade, sweeping through the clearing like judgment incarnate. Trees vaporized. Soil turned to glass. Monsters were gone—not felled, not scattered. Gone. As if the light had erased them from existence.
Silence crashed back in.
Then the aura flickered. Her blade dimmed.
And she dropped to one knee.
Breath gone. Strength gone.
Her sword planted into the ruined earth beside her to keep her upright.
She looked at the devastation—heart hammering, hands shaking.
"Still not ready, huh…?" she whispered to no one.
And fell forward into the ash.
◇_ _
They parted with the hiss of steel sliding past steel, both combatants skidding back through the scorched earth. Charred roots cracked beneath their heels as they caught themselves—breath sharp, eyes locked, weapons low but ready.
The assassin wiped a smear of blood from his chin, flicked it to the ground, and smirked. "I'll give you this," he said. "You don't move like a hired guard. You fight like an experienced adventurer, I would say but that's not it, your fighting style is too structured for that. Who are you and where the hell you come from? As I am damn sure you're not from this region."
The masked protector remained still. No response. Just the subtle shift of weight onto his back foot—reading the terrain, reading him.
A silence stretched, taut with unreadable tension.
Then the forest trembled.
A golden flare erupted in the distance—silent at first, then roaring, pulsing outward like a shockwave of divine wrath. Trees cracked. The sky dimmed. Mana shrieked in the air, folding in on itself in spirals of light.
Both men turned.
A glow lingered on the horizon. Not natural. Not safe.
The assassin whistled low.
"Well now," he muttered, sheathing his smaller blade. "Seems the girl just introduced herself."
The masked protector's shoulders tensed. His fingers twitched near his side.
"She wasn't supposed to draw that much," he said—quiet, more to himself than anyone else. "Not this soon. Not without control."
The assassin's smile curled.
"Oh? So she is also a special one. A precious little heir hiding holy fire in her spine? A bloodline."
He licked his teeth, eyes dancing with something dangerous.
"I knew it. That aura wasn't borrowed. It was bred. There's old blood running through her veins."
He stepped forward, casually dragging the tip of his blade through the dirt.
"I wonder how much she'd fetch. Or better yet—what I could learn by peeling back that power, layer by layer. Maybe she's divine-blooded. A relic. Or something even rarer."
The masked protector didn't move. But the stillness changed.
The forest quieted again—not from peace, but anticipation.
"You touch her," he said, voice low and clipped, "and I'll carve the last sound you make into stone."
The assassin laughed.
"Finally," he said. "A threat worth hearing."
He pointed his blade toward the center of the forest, toward the girl they both knew lay somewhere beyond the smoke.
"You're guarding a fading boy and a glowing girl. What's your plan when the wolves close in again? When bigger things come sniffing?"
"I won't need a plan," the masked man replied.
He inhaled once—sharply.
And let it out slow.
The air distorted.
Like the heat rising from a forge, his aura ignited. A silent pressure rippled outward, heavy and unnatural. Mana coalesced around him in tightly controlled coils, not erupting but compressing. Dense. Condensed. Measured.
Even the ash in the air stopped moving.
The assassin's smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed.
He stepped back—dread in his eyes.
"Wait a second," he muttered, blade raising reflexively. "That flow—how are you manifesting your aura…?"
The masked protector raised a hand.
And light ignited along his forearm—sigils ancient and lethal.
The assassin hissed.
"Shit. Fourth Class Changer."
The words felt heavy just saying them.
Then came the sound—not a roar, not a howl, but a chime. A singular note that rang through the bones of the forest, vibrating in roots and sky alike.
The assassin crouched instinctively, bringing his dagger to guard.
"You're a powerhouse yourself," he spat. "How many masks are you wearing?"
The masked protector said nothing.
But the forest answered.
Branches bowed. Leaves shivered without wind. And something behind the trees—deep and far and massive—stirred at last.
A beat passed.
Then both men moved again—faster, sharper. One driven by ambition. The other, by duty.
And the clearing, once silent, snapped alive with war.